


Pieced Back Together

by One_annoying_bird



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Abduction, Cuddles, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Whump, Drugs, Family Feels, Happy Ending, Hurt Dick Grayson, Medical Inaccuracies, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/One_annoying_bird/pseuds/One_annoying_bird
Summary: Dick finds himself in the clutches of fake psychiatrists hell-bent on convincing him he's insane.His family, meanwhile, are hell-bent on finding him.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845703
Comments: 23
Kudos: 371
Collections: All My Bookmarks





	Pieced Back Together

**Author's Note:**

> For my Batman Bingo square "Touch-Starved". I really like how this one turned out. 
> 
> **Warnings** : Evil doctors, needles, fear, drugs, not safe or realistic psychiatric practices. This one is like, upper teen warnings. I don't think it's quite at the level of Mature, but if you feel so please let me know and I'll change it. Also, if I missed any triggers or tags, let me know then too.
> 
> Though, fair warning this isn't fully edited. I'll return to it later.

If Dick were asked to describe his current situation, he'd only need one word.

Terrifying.

And, if he were feeling talkative, he'd give another. 

Lonely.

He's lost track of the days what was probably a few days ago. Which is ironic, he knows, but there's not much else to do besides sit and wonder what's going on in the outside world. All that he's known for the past who knows how long are the cold cells, the uncaring hands, the pinch of needles entering his skin so the "doctors" can smile and tell him how sick he is. 

He's not sick. They've put him in a straight jacket because he's _high-risk_. They've locked him in a padded cell because he's _evasive_. They've filled him up with all kinds of drugs because he's _dangerous_. 

Not because he's sick. 

The straight jacket is tight. Tighter than what it needs to be in his opinion. The straps rub his shoulders and arms and sides and his crotch painfully, cutting off circulation to much the same areas. He's still in his Nightwing suit underneath it, or what's left of his suit. The boots and gloves were taken, though his mask was left miraculously intact. There's not much he can do with it though because his suit isn't as high tech as the others. He doesn't have fancy hidden trackers or super secret sensors in the fabric. When he goes out into Blüdhaven, he goes out lightly. Minimal pockets, minimal useless weight to carry around. 

Which is why he didn't have his gasmask when they tossed—you guessed it—a gas bomb at him in the middle of a narrow alleyway. Earlier that night, he replaced it with a few extra wingdings. Which was stupid on his part because there's always a risk of gas attacks or drowning in a city like the 'Haven. He's just… hadn't needed it in a while and he thought he could go another night without needing it. 

Stupid. If the padded walls weren't… ya know, _padded_ he would knock his head against them. But they are padded, so slamming his head into the wall would be like slamming his head into a slightly stiff pillow. Instead, he shifts the best he can onto his side without rubbing the straps too harshly or agitating the nausea that comes whenever the antipsychotics (or just " _psychotics''_ because that's what they make him feel), begin to taper off. He's just started to come back to himself after the latest forcible dosage of pills and shots. He came to on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the floor; lacking any energy to push himself up against the wall to watch the door like he used to. 

So he lays here and thinks over and over and over about how terrifying and lonely everything is. 

He's not even sure what the main goal of these psychos are. No, no not psychos. God, Dick isn't ever going to be able to think of that word as an insult ever again now that it's been implied to him by these… these... _charlatans_! All that he knows is that they're trying to convince him that he's not a hero, which is dumb because he's literally still in the suit. But then they go "oh, don't you notice? You're in a gown, honey, and you're not wearing a mask. It's all a part of your mental disease blah blah blah". They've subtilty refused to call him by any name, let alone _Nightwing_ , unless they're forcing him to sit in a drugged up pseudo therapy session from hell. They're trying to get him to reveal his own name, and Batmans along with it. Making him feel crazy and sick and alone. He hasn't seen any other "patients'' since this began, and he swears the "Head Doctor" looks familiar, but his mind is always filled with a cotton that he can't claw through. 

And the worst part is that it's starting to work. The drugs and restraints and the ever lingering threat of electroconvulsive therapy or lobotomy. The lonely rooms and the rough hands and the pinning holds as he can do nothing but writhe as they do whatever they want with him. It's all tearing at him, making lucid moments—like now—far and few between. He's already spent enormous dosages of willpower to not accidentally blurt out his name while strapped to the therapist chair. 

When the "doctors" are kind to him, he has to force himself to not lean into their gentle touches as they clean him or feed him while he's half high on psychotics. 

He misses his family. 

He wonders if they know he's gone. 

He lays there for who knows how much longer, just thinking about Bruce and Jason and Tim and Duke and Barbara and Cass and Damian and Stephanie and Alfred and Batcow and Ace and Titus and Alfred the Cat and-

And the door opens and before Dick can scramble so he's sitting, the straps of the jacket are grabbed and he's lifted to his feet, coming face-to-face with faces he's long since stopped bothering to memorize. One of them asks him if he's going to be cooperative now—he wonders what he did to anger them—and if he's going to take his pills like a good boy. 

He wants to nod. Nod and say he won't fight anymore because he's tired and lonely and terrified and he wants to go home. 

He wants Alfred's sarcasm and Bruce's paranoia. He wants Jason's dramatic loudmouth and Tim's calculative affection. He wants Steph's loud sunshine and Cass's warm moonlight. He wants Damian's reluctant but also secretly very eager cuddles.

He wants a hug.

He wants to go home. 

But he's been resisting these people for this long—however long that is exactly—and he can't give up now. He _can't_. 

So he takes a deep breath, his ribs aching from the tension of his own arms lashed around his chest, and slams his head forward, hitting one of the "nurses" with a sickening _crunch_ between the two of them. 

Yelling erupts and the hands in the jacket's straps let go and shove him to the ground, a foot rams into his unprotected stomach. Dick moans but kicks out anyway, knocking the feet out from one of his abductors and rolling out of the way of a tear blinded punch thrown by the one he had just broken the nose of. 

With energy he's not sure he has, he manages to get to his feet. His head spins and for a moment he forgets which way is right and which way is Albuquerque. He dizzily stumbles over to where he thinks the door to the padded room is, but he doesn't get far before shadowed forms of more "doctors" and "nurses" block his way. The ones he'd just attacked must have called for help and he hadn't realized. He was too focused on the pounding of his heart in his ears to listen to much else.

God, Bruce must be so disappointed in him. Maybe that's why he hasn't saved Dick yet. 

"Who would be disappointed in you?" A familiar voice says, and in walks the "Head Doctor". Everything about him is familiar. His spiffy suit, his mustache and goatee, his full-moon glasses. At first, Dick thought about that one billionaire dude from that umbrella show Duke's been watching. The dad dude. The dead dad dude of a bunch of super kids except one isn't super and she wrote a book or something... but Dick soon realized into his forced stay here that it's not a "hey I think this guy looks like a fictional character!" familiarity and more of a "I swear I've definitely seen this guy before, I just can't remember where" familiarity.

He realizes his brain went other directions than what it should be when the 'Head Doctor" is suddenly a few steps closer, his mouth moving. 

"Wha'?" Dick slurs, closing his eyes and shaking his head to clear it. When he opens them, the "Head Doctor" is no closer, but several other people are standing around him now. Waiting to pounce. Like a swarm of angry bees surrounding Pooh Bear. 

"Who would be disappointed in you?" The "Head Doctor" asks again, slower this time, and Dick tries to think back to saying anything about disappointment or if he's accidentally said something out loud that he was just thinking. 

The answer is easy though. Not that he _does_ answer. He glares. "Fff'ck you," he slurs and the "Head Doctor" scowls. Sighs. 

"If you continue to be uncooperative, you know we'll be forced to use more drastic measures." The Head Charlatan steps forward, causing Duck to stumble back. Right into the arms of a big guy who immediately wraps their beefy hands around Dick's biceps. Dick struggles, but the "Head Doctor" continues to talk. "You've been making so much progress, but I'm afraid we're beginning to… plateau in your recovery. I don't wish to risk a lobotomy yet… but perhaps a mild run with electroconvulsive therapy will get through to you."

"No!" Dick snarls, real fear and terror and loneliness curling in his gut more powerful than ever. He bucks against the grip holding him, but more hands only join to keep him still as the "Head Doctor" himself walks forward with a syringe filled with stuff that will definitely have Dick drooling in a few seconds. With his lack of arms and the fact that he's still out of it thanks to his last dosage of drugs, he's easily pinned in a restraining hold; thick arms around his chest and hands around his bare feet to keep him from kicking out. Another pair of hands grab the side of his head, near his ear and under his jaw, forcing his head to the side and leaving his jugular right open for the stabbing. 

All the writhing and struggling in the world doesn't save him from the needle ultimately entering his skin. He bites back a whine, trying to look anywhere but the sharp eyes of the familiar leader of these buck craz- _buckwild_ evil villains as his thumb slowly presses the drugs into his neck.

The syringe isn't even halfway empty by the time a wave of dizziness crashes into him. His legs go limp against the restraining hold on them and his eyes flutter behind his mask. The mask that he's wearing. Not an illusionary one that was made out of a desperate mental desire to be a hero. A real mask. Like his real suit. Like his real family who are really looking for him but are sure taking a real long time to find him. 

The syringe is now empty and his ears are fuzzy, his tongue dry and thick. He's fully leaning into the hold around his chest now, colors swirling and everything becoming so far away. He's hardly aware of the needle leaving his neck.

Then, all of a sudden, there's a yell, and while Dick can't tell if it's right in his ear or a million miles away, he does see the flash of something black hit a blurry figure right across the face. A blaze of something shiny and sharp flashes and the arms holding him releases with a spurt of red. 

He collapses as the sound of yelling and shouting explodes above him. He does his best to curl up in the chaos, desperate for someone besides the jacket to hold him as everything fades away. 

—=—=—=—=—

When Dick wakes up, he's trapped. Something is wrapped around his legs and arms, something else on his head. He panics, a vague half formed memory of him sedated for _electroconvulsive therapy_. He flails against the holds on him, his brain driving a million miles an hour but it's a monkey at the wheel. Shouting erupts somewhere above him but it doesn't matter because he's got his arms free. The doctors made the mistake of taking off the straightjacket and he's going to make them regret that. 

He lashes out, his fist connecting with someone's sharp jaw, and then hurtles his body to the side. The feeling of weightlessness rushes over him until he hits the cold ground with a thump. His heart is in his throat and when he finally manages to open his eyes all he sees is the legs of the cot he was just on and cream colored counters sitting on a white tiled floor.

And the boots of someone walking towards him in hurried steps. 

Dick gasps, his vision is tilted and unfocused thanks to the drugs, but his hands are free for _once_ and he's not going to waste this chance. 

When the shoes come close enough for him to see somewhat clearly enough, he uses every ounce of strength that he has in his legs to rise to his feet and swing another punch. 

His hand is grabbed and the panic flutters to his throat. The man is _huge_. Hulking. Dressed in black with black eyes and black hair and black black black. A demon to take his soul perhaps. 

"Let go!" He shouts, and his own voice sounds far away and slurred. It's rough too. Grinding on his vocal chords like glass in a rock polisher. 

He pushes his free hand outward, hitting the brawny man in the chest and pushing him away. Dick feels a twinge of surprise at how easy it was to get his hand free but he's never one to look a gift horse in it's mouth. He turns and runs. 

Or tries to.

His legs give out and he falls with a cry, arms wildly grabbing for the counters but his grasp lands on various tools and papers which make it impossible for his lethargic hands to hold onto much of anything. He falls back to the ground, items made of metal and wood and papers falling on top of him, and when he tries to stand back up, his legs decide to not move.

He almost chokes out a sob. He's blown it. 

He curls up, wringing his hands to his chest to at least savor the feeling of having his arms not tied to his chest before he's forced back in the jacket and waits for the inevitable feeling of uncaring hands to grab him. 

And a hand does come, but it's gentle and strong. Almost safe. Landing right on his shoulder, giving away the giant presence of this man who's dressed in black. 

Dick releases a whimper. He's allowed to now, right? He releases a whimper and curls up and shuts his eyes, flinching from the grasp no matter how safe it feels. 

Then the strangest thing happens. 

The hand lets go. 

Dick doesn't open his eyes, he doesn't move an inch. He just takes gasping, confused breaths as the person's clothes shuffle and they sit down a small distance away from Dick. 

They don't move, and Dick doesn't move. If Dick moves then they'll attack him. They'll grab him and drag him back to the cot and strap him down, leaving him defenseless to whatever they want to do to him. 

So he stays still, desperate to keep this strangeness going for as long as possible. 

Eventually, Dick slowly opens his eyes, and enough time has passed for his vision to sharpen slightly. From his curled up position on the floor, he can see that the room is… different from the medical rooms they've taken him before. The other… labs… were covered in shadow, machines that could only be described as medieval sitting in the corners and the cot threadbare; thick, leather straps hanging from too many places to be necessary. 

But this one is warm. Creams illuminated in a gentle warm glow of multiple light bulbs above. The cot is… official. No straps to be seen from his position, and a blanket laying in disarray hangs off the edge of the cot. 

Then he notices he's not in his Nightwing suit anymore. There's no mask on his face. Panic swells again, but at least the gown he's been placed in is soft and patterned with… Justice League logos? 

His slow brain becomes curious at that, and for a moment the presence of the giant man dressed in black becomes forgotten as he slowly reaches out a finger to trace his touch over a yellow circle surrounding a black bat. Then he notices the inside of his forearm is bleeding. The stinging pain hits him next as he looks back to the cot where an IV is sitting abandoned. He's somehow ripped it out of his arm in his latest freak-out. 

"Chum?" A deep voice suddenly calls, perhaps noticing his movement. Dick would flinch or freeze at the voice if… if it weren't so achingly familiar and kind. If he didn't recognize the nickname. 

Slowly, Dick risks looking at the man, and his heart skips a few beats when he's finally able to get a good look at him. 

"Dick," the man asks again, wearing a black turtleneck with his dark hair slicked back with sweat. His blue eyes are surrounded by black bags. "You with me?"

"Bruce?" He gasps, a cocktail of emotions rampaging in his entire soul. He scrambles up so he's sitting, exhaustion suddenly so trivial compared to the man sitting a polite distance away. It's Bruce. It's _Bruce_. It can't be anyone else. He looks around the room again, familiarity striking into his heart like a stake. This is the med bay… in the cave. 

He turns back to Bruce, hazy memories slowly trickling in of some sort of fight before the drugs dragged him into unconsciousness.

"You came," he whispers, his mouth still feeling fuzzy and his tongue not quite working with him. Regardless, his throat still becomes tight and warmth attacks the back of his eyes. "You _came_."

"Always," Bruce says, his face so openly vulnerable and his voice so openly gentle, "I will always find you."

And Dick breaks right there. Because it's _over_ . He's _safe_. A sob finally does escape his mouth, wracking his ribs and letting loose the waterworks. Bruce's eyes widen and he scrambles forward slightly, then stops before he can touch Dick. 

And Dick doesn't care. Dick's safe. He's out of that hellhole. 

He throws himself at Bruce, wrapping his weak arms around his waist and pressing his face into Bruce's chest. He sobs as Bruce freezes, sobs as strong arms eventually wrap around his back and lifts Dick into a more comfortable position, sobs into his neck and absorbs the feeling of safe loving gentle kind safe safe safe hands on his back and in his hair. 

He sobs until he's weak with relief, sniffling against his _dad's_ shirt, clutching to the fabric like it's his lifeline. 

Eventually, Alfred walks in and manages to coax them both into the cot. Not because Bruce is hurt, but Dick refuses to let go, refuses to shatter this cocoon of safety and care he's found himself in. With kind words, Alfred bandages Dick's torn arm and replaces the IV in the crook of the other one. Once that's all done, Dick can hardly keep his eyes open anymore. He curls up further against Bruce's chest, feeling grateful for once in his life that he's short and is still small enough to do this, and let's his eyelids finally close.

The hand running through the back of his hair doesn't stop until he's asleep. Actually, he's pretty sure it doesn't stop until Bruce is asleep. Either way, hours later, when he wakes up again, he finds Bruce snoring slightly with Dick still wrapped in his hold. And there's more people too. All of them, sitting and laying around the room in various degrees of sleep and relaxation. There's a weight against his back that he instantly recognizes as none other than Damian who's crawled into the cot and fell asleep there. Another weight near his feet where Cass is softly snoring, half leaning into the cot from a chair. 

Duke is on the floor, using an extra cot blanket as a pillow while Tim and Steph lean against his back in states of sleep. Tim's computer is sitting on his lap and still on, in the middle of an hour long cat montage. 

Jason is the only one awake. He meets Dick's gaze from the other side of the room where he's curled up in a chair and his phone in his hands. Jason doesn't smile or wave or anything besides turn off his phone and answer the question plaguing Dick's mind. 

"You've been gone a month," he sits quietly, "the man who took you was Fredrick Cross, a former doctor at Arkham who got fired for inhumane practices. He took you as revenge because you were apparently a part of the investigation." 

"That's why…" Dick stops to clear his throat. His mouth tastes horrible. "That's why I thought… I recognized him."

Now Jason smiles slightly, standing up from his chair and approaching Dick with his hands in his pockets. He stops before the bed and gives Dick a level—kind—glare. "Don't disappear like that again, ya hear? The Demon Spawn was atrocious to deal with."

"You learn to love him," Dick mumbles, smiling at the still weight of Damian against his back, lowering his voice when Bruce's hand twitches in his hair. "M'sure you guys were-" he stops to yawn, "fine…"

Jason scoffs, sounding slightly amused. "Just don't do that again."

"No… no promises…"

And Dick falls back asleep, content with the knowledge that nothing will hurt him again so long as he has his family with him. He's no longer alone. He's home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I've rewritten this one so many times in the last week, switching from a plethora of ideas. First it was Dick is cursed to hurt anyone he touches, then it was baby dick is kidnapped for ransom, then it was adult dick kidnapped and held for ransom when Bruce makes his adoption official, but then I settled on this one because it's a trope I've always wanted to write. 
> 
> I also think this series has a theme so far. Dick is hurt, he passes out, wakes up to family caring for him. This is a twice in a row "Damian cuddles" ending too. And considering how the next square is "Mission Gone Wrong" it might follow the pattern XD
> 
> Here's my [Bingo Card](https://zhe-angst-diary.tumblr.com/post/624382266235355136/claimed-squares-touch-starved-mission-gone)! Please read the rules before you send in a request. You can send in a request via Tumblr Ask or here in the comments on AO3. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are much appreciated 😌


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